The Fine Line Between
by Wake
Summary: Hermione smiled at the elder woman's benign teasing and stepped back as her supervisor opened the office door to reveal the tall, imposing figure on the other side. There was a gasp-from her own throat, she only realized afterward-and the file tumbled from her suddenly numb fingers as Hermione came face-to-face with an older, but very much alive Severus Snape.
1. Chapter 1

The Fine Line Between

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters, plots, or places affiliated with him. They are the sole creation of J.K. Rowling and no copyright infringement is intended. I'm just a poor artist with entirely too much time on her hands.

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Chapter One: In Which the World Turns Upside Down

The day that Hermione Granger found her life irrevocably changed began as any other. Per usual, it was the scent of coffee that first alerted her to the arrival of morning. Heady and rich, the aroma invaded her sleep-clouded senses with merciless abandon, drawing an irritable sigh from her lips before she rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. It was an utterly useless action, she realized after a moment, as the smell still managed to seep through and into her nasal passages.

In her half-conscious state, she vaguely noted the fact that she hated coffee; an inane notion, perhaps, considering that she consumed at least four cups of the stuff a day, but that particular detail was the furthest thing from her mind. Instead, all her present thoughts centered solely on just how much she despised the drink and its accompanying odor if only for the reason that it disturbed her slumber when she so desperately wished to remain abed.

So preoccupied was she with trying to ignore both the strong odor and the light of early morning that she failed to noticed the sound of her bedroom door opening or the soft pad of footsteps across the carpet until something prodded her roughly in the shoulder and an amused voice inquired, "You gonna get up some time today, Granger?"

Heavy with the sultry drawl so often heard in the voices of American southerners, the voice was low and feminine and its owner currently leaned over her. "Or just sleep all day?"

Following the question, there was a long stretch of silence and Hermione released a quiet breath into the eiderdown while hoping she'd been left in peace. She had just begun to drift off again when the interloper returned with a vengeance and ripped away both pillow and duvet in a flurry of ruby red fingernails and fluttering bedclothes. Brilliant sunlight suddenly spilled across her face and, with an indignant curse, Hermione was forced to reconcile an abrupt return from the land of nod.

"Well, I never thought I'd ever hear _that_ word come out of your mouth," her assailant continued with a chuckle. Hermione, meanwhile, merely groaned, flopped backwards onto the mattress and tugged the remaining sheet over her head. "Oh, no, you don't. Up and at 'em, cupcake." The sheet soon followed the path of her pillow and joined the heap of linens on the carpet.

Scrunching up her nose, Hermione slung an arm across her face. "Go 'way, Jules," she ordered darkly. With her voice still slurred with the last dregs of sleep, however, the words emerged sounding more like the wailing of a dying animal than the intended phrase.

And, much to the younger woman's annoyance, "Jules" was quick to point out the resemblance. "Sorry, darlin', but you'll have to repeat that," the girl informed her casually. "Preferably in English; I don't understand Sleepyhead."

Sighing in irritation, Hermione allowed her arm to fall listlessly back to the bed prior to prying her eyes open and glowering furiously into the laughing grey-green gaze of her housemate. Jules' pale eyes glittered mischievously as her lips lifted into what Hermione knew could only be considered an absolutely feral smirk before she said, "Mornin,' Sunshine."

"Oh, shut up," was Hermione's irritable response as she sat up and swung her legs over the side of her bed. Jules flopped down unceremoniously beside her and laughed. It was a light, musical sound that, in spite of her less than chipper mood, made Hermione's lips twitch into a grin.

Noticing the lack of response, her roommate nudged her with an elbow and said, "Ah, c'mon, Granger, perk up. It's only seven in the mornin.'" Grimacing at the patronizing use of her surname, Hermione inwardly marveled at the unfortunate creature known as the "morning person." Julia, or "Jules" as she preferred to be called, certainly fell into that category, much to her housemate's grief.

Resting her head in her hands, Hermione blinked the last vestiges of sleep from her eyes and groaned, "Don't remind me, Jules."

Jules chuckled good-naturedly and offered Hermione a light pat on the shoulder before asking, "Late night?"

"Yes," replied Hermione shortly. "I didn't get in until nearly three o'clock."

Well acquainted with late nights on the job, Jules pulled a sympathetic face. "Dare I ask what happened?"

"Jones happened," groused Hermione. "Bloody fool nearly blew us up. It took Toliver and me nearly two hours to clear the lab of smoke and make repairs. Then we had to re-brew the Wolfsbane base and you know how long that takes. The boy's a menace in the lab, Jules. He's going to kill somebody one day!" Then, as if realizing she'd been taking out a great deal of her vitriol on her friend, she subsided with a huff and grumbled, "Sorry."

"Eh, no problem. Sounds like you had a rough night," Jules commiserated and then smiled wryly. "Damn. I take one night off and miss all the fun."

Faintly horrified by this statement, Hermione merely stared at the other woman prior to saying, "You and I have a very different definition of 'fun,' Julia Blackridge."

Julia merely grinned and shrugged. "Well then," she began, rising from the bed and stretching, "I guess I better go and let you get dressed. Erin Floo'ed about ten minutes ago and asked that we come in 'round eight thirty. I'm thinkin' that she wants to have a team meeting before we start the daily grind." With that, the brunette sashayed out the door and back down to the kitchen.

Shaking her in exasperation at her friend's early morning antics, Hermione pushed herself to her feet and made her way across the hall to the bathroom. There she proceeded to strip and climb into the shower as she hadn't had the opportunity to bathe before practically collapsing into bed upon arriving home a scant four hours earlier.

Standing under the hot spray, she worked shampoo through her riotous mass of curls and thought about the state of her life. She knew she shouldn't complain about her present existence: Her life was good. She had a nice house, great friends, and a wonderful job, the likes of which she would have likely never encountered in Britain, if only because she was Muggleborn. Even so, she found herself missing England sometimes, though its magical community had never been particularly welcoming.

She had lived in the States for nearly a decade now, having spent four of those years earning her Potions Mastery at the prestigious Giles Institute for Advanced Magical Study followed by two under the tutelage of Potions Master Talbot Franklin. The last three years she had spent in the potions research facilities at the Hollinworth, working alongside a team of fellow potioneers led by Potions Mistress Erin Montgomery-Reed. It was a challenging vocation with long hours spent researching and hovering over experimental and often temperamental elixirs that possessed the potential to explode in one's face at any given moment.

Perhaps it was this unpredictable element that made Hermione enjoy her occupation so thoroughly. In fact, it oftentimes took her by surprise how much she loved working with potions, considering that, during her formative years, she had never really envisioned herself becoming a Potions Mistress-Charms or Transfiguration perhaps, but never Potions. Of course, her Potions professor might have had much to do with her lack of zeal for the subject. Not that said subject hadn't intrigued her during her Hogwarts days, but Severus Snape had never been one to inspire his students to great heights, as it were. Truthfully, most were simply content to survive his constant ill temper.

All the same, she couldn't bring herself to think badly of the man. Instead, she felt sympathy, if not outright pity, for her former teacher whenever he chanced to cross her mind, which was more often than not these days as April drew to a close and May approached. This time of year always brought with it a tide of memories that were, in Hermione's opinion, better left forgotten-recollections of blood and battle, of friends and innocence lost.

Over the years, she had managed to lay the majority of her demons to rest; however, she sometimes found that when spring was in full bloom and the air grew warm with the promise of summer, ghosts from the past would return to haunt her. The events of that awful day were, even now, firmly etched into her memory. At times, she could still smell the smoke from curse fire and blood on the air; hear the screams of the wounded and dying; see the faces of her friends-of Tonks, Lupin, Colin, Fred, and so many others-so still and white in death.

Worst of all, she could still remember the terrible rasping, gurgling noise that issued from Snape's torn throat as he demanded Harry to "Take...it...Take...it..." while silvery wisps of memory spilled forth like his very life's blood onto the floor of the Shrieking Shack. She only vaguely recalled conjuring a flask for capturing the memories that would later help exonerate Severus Snape, but the memory of watching the light fade from his eyes would remain with Hermione until the end of her days.

_He spent almost his entire life fighting for us, _she mused unhappily, _fighting against Voldemort. He was forced to do things that no man should have to endure, all in the name of defeating the Dark Lord and protecting Harry._ Hermione's brow furrowed. _Harry...the son of the man he hated and the woman he loved more than anything. It just doesn't seem fair. _She shook her head and didn't bother to stifle the sympathy that welled up within her at the thought, even though she could fairly hear the Potions Master's silky voice in her head, berating her for directing compassion where it was neither wanted nor needed.

"You haven't drowned in there, have you, Granger?" Jules' voice suddenly burst forth from the other side of the bathroom door and Hermione realized with a start that she stood under a spray of water that had since grown rather chill. "You've been in there for ages and I need to brush my teeth."

Shutting off the water, Hermione grabbed a towel from the rack just outside the shower cubicle and began to rigorously dry herself. "I'll be out in just a minute, Jules!" she called back as she bound her hair up in the towel and pulled on her bathrobe. Opening the door, she slipped by her housemate, who cast her a strange look before stepping into the bathroom, and padded across the hall to her bedroom.

Some thirty-five minutes later found Hermione clad in black Muggle slacks, a jade-green cowl-neck blouse, and a pair of black sling-backs that clicked smartly on the marble floor as she walked through the front doors of the Henry and Hyperia Hollinworth Memorial Research Facility, her briefcase and a stainless-steel travel mug in hand. The receptionist, a young auburn-haired woman with stylish black-rimmed glasses, offered Hermione a smile and a cheerful "good morning, Ms. Granger" prior to returning to the stack of papers on her desk.

"Good morning, Meredith," replied Hermione as she passed. She stopped only shortly by her office to drop her briefcase onto her desk and toss her outer robes over the back of her chair before spinning on her heel and proceeding to the conference room.

The room was nearly empty as it was still relatively early. Those who had managed to drag themselves in thus far milled about, sipping coffee and munching on the breakfast pastries someone had possessed the forethought to provide. Glancing around, she spotted Jules seated at the large, circular table that dominated the room where her housemate conversed quietly with one Jason Toliver.

Toliver, or "Tolly" as Jules liked to call him, was thirty-two, sandy-haired, hazel-eyed, and the kind of guy any single woman on the planet would have given her right arm to have. Or so Jules liked to say: Frankly, Hermione thought him somewhat conceited and he put her vaguely in mind of Draco Malfoy-minus the Death Eater tendencies, of course. Then again, Toliver was quite intelligent and, when he wished to be, he could be impossibly charming, which was a quality that Malfoy had never possessed. Even so, Hermione noted with a grim sort of satisfaction that the normally urbane Toliver looked nearly as exhausted as she felt.

"Howdy, Sunshine," Jules chirped as Hermione sank into the chair across from her. "Tolly here was just telling me all about last night's escapades."

Hermione snorted as Jason offered her a half-hearted shrug and an apologetic smile. "Escapades?" she replied with a scowl. "We're lucky Jones didn't kill us."

"Well, someone's in a fine mood this mornin,'" Jules rejoined laughingly and took a sip of the citrus-infused green tea she favored. Hermione merely "hmph-ed" in reply.

"Come now, Hermione," said Jason soothingly in his flat mid-western tones. "It wasn't as bad as all that. He let his potion go a bit too long, that's all. A mistake all of us made when we were first starting out." That remark was true enough: Mark Jones had only joined the department as an apprentice a few months before and Harmon's variation on the Strengthening Solution wasn't exactly a cakewalk, as the Americans like to say. Toliver's words, however, brought little comfort, and Hermione frowned as she pretended that her bad temper had everything to do with a distinct lack of sleep and having been nearly blown sky high, rather than the less than pleasant reminiscences that hovered still on the edges of her waking mind.

"Yes, well, remember those words the next time the kid tries to recreate Vesuvius," replied Hermione as Toliver indulged in a chuckle. Jules laughed outright and Hermione found herself cracking a smile.

Once Jason and Jules regained some semblance of composure, Hermione glanced around at the now full room and looked back to her friends. "Any idea what's going on?"

Toliver scoffed mockingly. "You mean there's something the indomitable Hermione Granger doesn't know?" At her sharp glance, the blond man grinned cheekily and then leaned forward conspiratorially. Dropping his voice, he said, "I don't know anything for certain, but word around the department is that the board's been harping about the progress of the Greythorne Project thus far-or, rather, the lack thereof. Apparently, they're getting a bit anxious since we're getting close to the deadline."

"We're months away from the deadline, Tolly," Jules stated with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"Four months isn't really all that long, Blackridge," retorted Toliver. He raised his coffee cup to his lips and took a thoughtful sip. Swallowing, he went on, "I think the reason the board is so nervous is that, without this project's success, we stand the possibility of losing a good portion of our funding."

"We're making good headway, though," said Jules. "What'd they expect us to do?"

"Well, there's been talk of bringing in another Potions Master to consult," explained Toliver. "Someone who's knows what we're working with-the Wolfsbane, in particular." Here he turned to Hermione with a speculative look in his eye. "To be totally truthful, I think that Erin plans to turn the project over to you, Hermione. I mean, you did most of the preliminary research and you probably know more about the Wolfsbane Potion and its effects than anyone in the department. "

A bit flattered, but unsure, Hermione shook her head. "I don't know, Jason," she said. "The Greythorne Project means a lot to the department. I don't think Erin would risk handing it off to someone else."

Jason snorted. "What are you talking about? You're the best brewer and researcher we have. With the exception of me, of course." He smirked cockily as Julia rolled her eyes at his jest. Sitting back in his chair, he took another sip of coffee. "But, like I said, everything I just told you is hearsay. No one knows anything for sure."

"Well, some help you are," muttered Jules just before the door swung open and Erin Montgomery-Reed stepped into the room.

Slender and petite, the head of the Hollinworth's potions sector was nothing at all like Hermione had imagined when she'd applied for a research position some three year ago. At only forty-five years of age, Montgomery-Reed was one of the youngest in her field to hold such a position of authority, which caused no end of trouble from her peers as they saw her as something of an upstart. Upon entering her interview, Hermione had known next to nothing about her would-be boss and half-expected the woman to be a dried-up old crone, something like a female counterpart to old Master Franklin and set in her ways. Therefore, she'd been rather surprised when she was greeted by a lively woman with clear blue eyes, dark hair, and a quick smile.

As of the moment, those sharp, pale eyes passed quickly over the room's occupants before their owner nodded once and called for attention. "Alright, people, let's be quick about this. We've got a lot of work to do over the next several weeks and no time to waste."

She looked them all over again before brandishing the folder of documents she carried and dropping them onto the table in front of her. "By this juncture, I'm sure the majority of you have heard about the possibility of another master joining our ranks in the very near future." Here she paused and smirked as several people ducked their heads. "I've called you all in this morning to confirm the rumor that I am, in fact, bringing in someone to aid in the Greythorne venture. Those of you who have worked on this project are well aware of its significance in terms of this facility's future. We stand to lose a great deal if we do not succeed. Therefore, I have brought in someone who is intimately familiar with the types of potions we are presently working with, the Wolfsbane in particular."

"Brought in?" one of their colleagues-a lab technician by the name of Ian Harris-inquired. "You mean you've already hired him?"

"As I said before, Harris, we're running short on time," explained Erin. "He'll be joining us later today for a run-down of lab procedure and protocol." With one nimble hand, she gestured to the folder before her, which proceeded to open and issue its contents neatly across the table. "In the meantime, these are the new rotation schedules as well as revised timelines for the Lavenhart and Thomason projects." She looked around the room again and clapped her hands once. "Right then. Get to work!"

The departmental rumor-mill apparently appeased and Toliver looking all the more smug for it, Hermione gathered her new timetable and coffee and headed for the exit, only to be brought up short by the sound of her superior calling her name. "Granger! A moment, please?"

Hermione paused and turned to face the older woman, who swiftly joined her at the door. "Of course."

Erin, bypassing her, stepped into the corridor and motioned toward her office. "My office in five. I've something I want to discuss with you." She offered Hermione a swift smile and set off down the hall. Hermione watched her go and then turned to find both Jason and Julia grinning at her.

"Not a word, Toliver," she said with false curtness as the man's grin widened. He merely waved her away prior to making his way over to the coffee pot.

"He'll be unbearable, you realize, if he's right about Montgomery-Reed handing the Greythorne Project over to you?" Jules questioned casually.

"Don't I know it," was all Hermione said. She smiled at Jules. "I'd best be off. Erin will be waiting."

Upon arriving at the entrance to her superior's domain, Hermione paused and drew a breath to calm her ever-increasing nerves. It was foolish, perhaps, for she truly had little to be nervous about, but she could count on one hand the number of times since she'd begun working for the Hollinworth's potions' department that its head had called her into a private meeting. Normally, Erin simply dropped by her office or the lab, said whatever it was she needed to say, and then departed as though it were completely normal for her to do so when most departmental heads were loath to "associate with the masses," so to speak.

Now, though, as she stared at the shining white pine of the office door, Hermione found herself transported back to adolescence, feeling as though she were standing outside McGonagall's-or, worse, Snape's-door. Not that the latter had occurred all that often; as a Gryffindor, she'd avoided the man like the plague and he her until one's presence was actively foisted upon the other.

Giving herself a hearty mental shake, Hermione lifted a hand to the wood and rapped sharply.

"Come in," came Montgomery-Reed's muffled voice and Hermione opened the door to discover her boss seated behind her desk, several folders open and spread before her as she scribbled in their margins. She glanced up as Hermione stepped deeper into the room. "Have a seat, Granger. I'll only be a second." While Erin continued her work, Hermione took the time to study the room at large.

It never ceased to amaze her how much the American Wizarding World differed from what she'd come to know in England. While the magical populace of her homeland appeared to be stuck somewhere in the late Victorian era in terms of clothing and decor, the Americans had marched straight into the twenty-first century. It had shocked her when she'd first arrived in the States, how modern everything seemed and how the Magical and Muggle worlds blended so seamlessly. Not long after their acquaintance, she had asked Jules how this was possible.

_"We've never had the same political climate you guys had over in Europe," _the other girl had explained as the two of them ate lunch in one of the courtyards of the Giles Institute's sprawling campus._ "No Purebloods to cling to the old ways, really,"_ she'd gone on to say_. "Everybody, Muggle or Wizard, who ever came here, came for a fresh start, you know? And since the Trials, we magic folk have always tried to blend. It made things easier in the long run-still does. 'Sides, the Muggles only see what they want to see." _

Erin's office exemplified such "blending." Brightly lit by the charmed lights overhead, the room was spacious and its walls were a utilitarian white that contrasted distinctly with the shining ebony marble of the floor. Straight lines, clean edges, and neutral colors made up the furniture: chairs of rich, taupe leather stood upon an ivory rug before the desk, which was itself a fine thing made of glossy mahogany whereas shelves of a darker wood lined one side of the room. Said shelves were filled with books and various potions' paraphernalia as well as the odd ingredient suspended in a bright blue or green liquid. A large window through which one could see the bustling street below dominated the wall behind Erin's desk while a black and white photographic print, its seascape subject Muggle and unmoving, adorned the wall opposite the book shelves. All in all, it was quite a nice space, if a little stark.

"I suppose you're wondering why I called you in here." Erin's voice cut through Hermione's reverie and the younger woman snapped back to attention. Resting her chin on her interlaced fingers, Erin leaned forward on the desktop and smirked faintly at Hermione before saying, "Then again, perhaps not. I'm well aware that Toliver has been bolstering the rumor mill. The man spreads gossip faster than a sixteen year old girl."

Leaning back in her chair and schooling her features, Erin continued, "However, in this instance, I have to say that Jason was remarkably on target, so I won't beat around the bush. You came to the Hollinworth highly recommended, Granger. You graduated top of your class at Giles and Master Franklin himself declared you the finest apprentice he has ever had the pleasure to instruct. Your skills in research and potion-craft are unsurpassed by anyone under my direction, and I have every confidence that you will succeed in any venture you undertake. Therefore, I've decided that, for the next four months, you will work exclusively on the Greythorne Project." Here Erin rose, turning to pull a thick file from the cabinet behind her desk. "In fact, I'm handing all supervisory duties over to you."

Stunned and not a little embarrassed by her employer's praise, Hermione accepted the file with a nod. A rare occasion it was when a project of Greythorne's magnitude was delegated, and Hermione exalted at the prospect of being selected to head such an enterprise. It was the sort of chance that she had spent the last ten years of her life working towards.

"Of course, I don't expect you to go it alone, Granger. Merlin knows you'd only work yourself into the ground," continued Erin, reclaiming her seat while Hermione smiled sheepishly. It was no secret in the department that she had a tendency to become overly involved in her work. "You'll have a team of junior assistants in addition to the aid of one of the most acclaimed Potions Masters on the east coast: Sullivan Prince."

Recalling the name, Hermione was just about to ask how on earth Erin had managed to draw the purportedly brilliant, yet reclusive Prince out of the private sector when a brisk knock sounded at the door.

"And that would be the esteemed Master Prince now," Erin stated, rising and coming around the desk. "Granger, if you don't have any questions, I'll let you get to the lab. I want a list of your chosen assistants no later than tomorrow afternoon and weekly status reports thereafter."

"Yes, ma'am," said Hermione, gripping the folder tightly in her hands. "And thank you for this opportunity."

"No need to thank me," replied the dark-haired woman as she escorted Hermione to the door. "I wouldn't trust a task of this importance to anyone less. As I said before, I have the utmost faith in your abilities." She reached for the doorknob. "Now, I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me. I must speak with our newest addition before I subject him to your tender mercies."

Hermione smiled at the elder woman's benign teasing and stepped back as her supervisor opened the office door to reveal the tall, imposing figure on the other side. There was a gasp-from her own throat, she only realized afterward-and the file tumbled from her suddenly numb fingers as Hermione came face-to-face with an older, but very much alive Severus Snape.

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A/N: Well, here it is: the first chapter of _The Fine Line Between._ I've been toying with the idea of writing a Harry Potter fiction for a long while. I've had some terrible writer's block on my LOTR fic lately, so I started jotting down ideas for an HP fic and this is the one that caught my fancy. I also thought it would be nice to work on writing in a different point of view, seeing as I usually write in first person. This story is written in the third, focusing primarily on Hermione, so we'll just have to see how things go; I'm afraid that I'm rather rusty. Also, be forewarned that this fic is AU, EWE, and will feature SS/HG. If this pairing isn't your cup of tea, I suggest you move along now. I chose to write this fic because I enjoy alternate pairings and I think these two would share some interesting dynamics. More or less, I'm writing this story purely for my own enjoyment, but I hope that you'll enjoy it, too.

Cheers,

Wake


	2. Chapter 2

The Fine Line Between

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters, plots, or places affiliated with him. They are the sole creation of J.K. Rowling and no copyright infringement is intended.

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Chapter Two: In Which Life as We Know It Will Never Be the Same 

"I can't believe you fainted," Jules declared incredulously as she pushed a cup of tea into Hermione's still trembling hands and took a seat beside her on the lounge sofa. Accepting the mug, Hermione scowled briefly at her friend, but offered no response as she wrapped her fingers around the warm ceramic and inhaled the comforting scent of ginger and mint. "Seriously, you're usually solid as a rock. What happened?"

Hermione took a fortifying sip of the liquid and released a breath. "I didn't faint," she denied, toying with the mug's handle. At Julia's "oh, sure, you didn't-" expression, the curly-haired woman relented and flopped back against the couch cushions. She didn't particularly care that she likely resembled a petulant child at that moment: She knew only that her mind still reeled from the absolute shock of seeing a man come back from the grave.

"Okay, fine," she groused. "I fainted. I guess the stress of work is finally getting to me." Hermione's answer was complete nonsense, and both she and Jules knew it.

"Yeah, right," said Jules, arching a slim brow. "Pull the other one, Granger. You and I both know that you thrive on stress and any mention of the contrary is total bull." She fixed Hermione with such a piercing look that the other woman shifted uncomfortably in her seat and then, at last, spilled.

"I know him, alright?" snapped Hermione before lowering her voice to say more calmly, "From...back then." Jules appeared momentarily perplexed until Hermione dropped her eyes to examine the cup in her hands and murmured, "From the war."

"Jesus, Hermione!" exclaimed Jules, immediately reaching over to lay a hand on her friend's forearm. "Why didn't you say anything? I doubt Erin would have sprung him on you like that if she'd known."

"I didn't know I knew him," replied Hermione defensively. "Besides, he's supposed to be dead! We-Harry, Ron, and I-we saw him die!"

"What?" asked Jules in surprised confusion. She rallied quickly, but found herself shaking her head in disbelief. "Sorry, Hun, but I'm pretty sure that dead men don't walk or talk, let alone wander into the Hollinworth." She paused thoughtfully for a moment and then amended, "Well, outside of the occasional vampire, that is."

Finally recovering from her shocked state, Hermione sighed and, leaning forward on her elbows, pinched the bridge of her nose. "One would think," she grumbled. Then she chuckled softly as a long forgotten memory surfaced. "You know, there was once a rumor around Hogwarts claiming he was a vampire."

"That's how you knew him, then?" inquired Jules. "He was your teacher?"

"Yes, he was my Potions professor," answered Hermione. Her brow furrowed faintly. "He's changed his name, though. It was Severus Snape then."

The thoughtful expression returned to Jules' face. "Well, if he's supposed to be dead, I can kind of see why," she commented before her eyes widened and she sat forward abruptly. "Hey, wait a sec! I know that name." Excitedly, she shifted to face Hermione on the sofa. "You remember when we had that mess with the new tagging system a couple of months back?"

Hermione nodded in response. Oh, she remembered alright; or, rather, she plainly recalled all the complaining Jules engaged in upon returning home after a day spent sorting through innumerable texts, articles, and the like. Jules continued, "Caroline and I were re-cataloguing some of the older periodicals-ones from back in the nineties-and I remember catching Erin's name on the cover of one of them. It was a feature article; something about the regenerative properties of amethyst in nerve tonics, I think. Apparently, she was part of a collaborative study with a British Master by the name of Severus Snape."

"Yes, and he hated every second of it."

Both younger women startled at the sound of Erin's voice coming from the open doorway. She had an uncanny way of popping up at the most unexpected times, and Hermione wondered fleetingly if "sneaking about" was a characteristic shared by all Potions Masters. Snape, for instance, had been an expert in the art of skulking, though Hermione had always attributed the ability to his years spent in espionage. To discover that her currently employer also possessed the trait was not only unnerving, but somewhat annoying because Hermione herself had yet to acquire the skill.

Erin stepped fully into the room. "He thought I was just some young American upstart drabbling in the 'subtle science and exact art that is potions making.' Never mind the fact that I was a fully qualified Potions Mistress and barely three years his junior at the time." She shook her head. "Such a way with people, that man."

Approaching the couch where Hermione and Julia sat, she gave the former a quick once over and asked, "You feeling alright, Granger? You scared us half to death."

"I'm fine," assured Hermione, flushing at her superior's concern.

For her part, Erin didn't look entirely convinced, but she accepted Hermione's answer and, instead, said, "Good." Then, with a wave of her hand, the door to the staff lounge shut and locked, and Erin met them both with as serious an expression as either had ever seen on the older woman's face.

"I don't suppose I need to ask what the two of you were just discussing, or that the topic is one that should remain between yourselves?" she queried, and so thrown by Erin's grave tone were they that both younger women immediately nodded. "Good because that's all I'll say on the matter." Another wave of her hand unlocked and opened the door. "Blackridge, one of the collections specialists-Martine, I think-was looking for you. Something about a glitch in the cataloguing system."

Jules heaved a sigh and stood. "That's my cue, I guess," she said. "I'll see you later, Hermione, Madam Montgomery-Reed, ma'am." Then, giving Hermione's shoulder one last comforting squeeze, she turned and left the lounge.

"Yes, I suppose I need to get to the lab," said Hermione as she, too, began to rise.

"Hold up a minute, Granger. I want to talk to you." said Erin, lifting a hand to halt Hermione's progress.

The younger woman sank back into her seat. "Yes?"

"Are you sure you're alright?" Erin pressed. "You've had quite a shock, I believe."

"I'm fine, ma'am," assured Hermione.

Peering critically into Hermione's face for a few long moments, Erin, seemingly satisfied at last, nodded once before saying, "I hope so, Granger. I need you in top shape for here on." She crossed her arms as she studied her employee. "I have to ask, though. Will working with Master Prince pose a problem?"

"I..." Hermione hesitated. Honestly, she had no idea. She had been little more than a child the last time she had spoken to Severus Snape-Prince, or whatever he was calling himself these days-and that had been only briefly as he raced by her on his way to the Astronomy Tower the night Dumbledore had died. Even without knowing his part in that particular disaster, though, Hermione had to admit that she'd cared very little for him back in those days. Now, however, she was an adult and she had long since realized that the eyes of maturity view the world in a dramatically different manner.

"I don't know," she replied at length. "I mean, I was a kid the last time I saw him. I didn't like him then, but I suppose I didn't really know him either."

Erin pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Well, then, we'll just have to see how it goes," she said after a moment. "If he hasn't run for the hills yet."

"What'd you mean?" questioned Hermione, though she suspected that she already knew the answer.

Erin looked vaguely pained. "Well, he wasn't exactly thrilled with the prospect of working with you," she admitted. "It took a bit of convincing on my part."

Hermione released a short, wry laugh. "A lot, you mean. Especially if he's anything like he once was."

"Don't trouble yourself over it, Granger. He'll survive," replied Erin. "Now, I have to get back to my office. I have a meeting with the board at eleven and I still need to finish up some paperwork. I'll see you later." With that, she made her way across the room and out the open door.

Hermione remained seated for several moments after Erin vanished down the hall. Her mostly full tea cup sat on the coffee table in front of her, though she had since lost any interest in it. At last, after steeling herself for what was to come, she stood, dumped the remaining tea into the kitchenette sink, and set off towards her office.

She ignored the curious glances of her co-workers as she passed them in the hall. By that point in the day, the news of her swoon had, no doubt, traveled all over the building and, while the gawking irritated her, she chose to ignore it. As it was, she had much bigger things to worry about-such as what awaited her when she stepped into her office.

Although what she found when she entered the room probably shouldn't have surprised her, she still started horribly when the charmed lights switched on and threw the dark figure standing at the window into the stark relief.

"Christ!" she yelped, seizing the doorframe in panic. "What the hell-"

"Calm yourself, Miss Granger." The words were reminiscent of something he might have said in class and Hermione found herself momentarily transported back in time to the dank confines of the Hogwarts Potions classroom. "You needn't descend into hysterics on my account."

Filled with the man's signature sarcasm, the comment rankled and Hermione scowled. "You do realize that it is generally considered bad form to enter someone's office without permission, Snape," she began haughtily to cover her discomfiture. "Those chairs outside are there for a reason."

"Ah, but I did have permission, Miss Granger. Madam Montgomery-Reed escorted me here herself," he answered smoothly as he arched a brow.

Hermione returned the look with narrowed eyes, but thought better of replying. Crossing the room, she dropped the file containing the parameters for the Greythorne Project onto her already cluttered desk and asked shortly, "What do you want, Snape?"

"My, my, Miss Granger, I see the intervening years have done little to improve your disposition," he continued smoothly. "Or your regard for authority, for that matter."

Hermione didn't bother to restrain the derisive snort resulting from that last remark, but she didn't rise to the bait. Instead, she sank into the nice leather office chair she'd received upon moving into this particular office and asked, "Was there something specific you needed, Sir?"

Proffered in a saccharine, sycophantic tone, the question revealed precisely how Hermione felt about Snape's presumed authority. "Oh, where are my manners?" she went on in the same sugary sweet voice as she gestured to the pair of armchairs in front of her desk. "Please, have a seat. Perhaps you'd care for a cup of tea?"

There was a moment of silence that reminded Hermione vaguely of the calm just before the storm and she half-expected Snape to revert to type and divvy out a tongue-lashing of titanic proportions. Thus, it came as an abject surprise when he merely smirked at her response. Stepping away from the window, he fairly glided over to a chair and sat, crossing his ankles and leaning back, looking all the while as if he owned the place. Hermione, for her part, tried not the grit her teeth as she watched him make himself comfortable.

"No tea, thank you," he said. "Though an espresso would not go amiss." His smirk widened, and Hermione knew that her sarcasm had been duly noted and would likely come back to haunt her.

"On your own time, Snape," she snapped as her agitation rose. She sorely suspected Snape knew that he was getting to her.

"Why, Miss Granger, one would think that you're not terribly pleased to see me," her former professor observed sardonically.

"One would think that I would not be seeing you at all, considering that I attended your funeral over a decade ago," replied Hermione. "Which, of course, begs the question of your extraordinary return from the dead?"

"I must say that I'm surprised, Miss Granger," he admitted, though it was apparent that he wasn't surprised at all, "that the so-called 'cleverest witch of her age' has not yet discovered the secrets of something as simple as resurrection."

Off-balanced and weary of this game of wits, Hermione drew a deep breath to calm her simmering temper and leaned forward to rest both hands on the desktop. "I didn't give myself that particular appellation, Snape, and I'd thank you not to use it," she said tartly.

"Then I'm afraid that I must ask the same of you, Miss Granger," the man replied. "I no longer use the name of Snape." His voice was smooth, but there was something in his dulcet tones that made Hermione's heart ache in the strangest way. "You may call me Master Prince, or Sullivan, if you must. I trust you realize why."

Certainly, Hermione did, but she still wondered. "Your name was cleared, you know." She paused. "Harry made sure of it."

Snape-_Prince_, Hermione reminded herself sharply-snorted. "Indeed? And how is the vaunted St. Potter these days?" The question recalled something that the Potions Master of her youth might say and was asked in so much the same acerbic manner that Hermione very nearly smiled. Or she would have had she not been so affronted on her old friend's behalf.

Thus, she answered pleasantly, "Happily married and the father of three. Two boys and a little girl: James, Albus, and Lily, respectively."

Having caught the almost imperceptible tightening of his features in response to the final name, Hermione sat back in her chair and indulged in a smirk of her own. It seemed that some things still had the power to wound, however faintly. Even so, she had never been a particularly vindictive person (well, perhaps that was not entirely true-Marietta Edgecombe, for example, might say otherwise) but she had never been one to revel in another's pain. Therefore, she decided to soften the blow a bit by continuing, "Somehow, though, I doubt you came here to discuss the personal lives of your former students. So, I ask again, what do you want?"

"Personal lives, no," he agreed. "Professional, on the other hand... Tell me, Miss Granger, why is it that you chose to make a career of a subject for which you had neither true aptitude nor passion?"

Hermione reeled back in outrage. Then, placing both hands on her desk, she pushed herself to standing and leaned forward, fixing the man across from her with such a glower as to melt stone. "You have a lot of nerve, coming here and speaking of things you know absolutely nothing about," she hissed. "I had plenty of aptitude-more than enough, in fact. You, however, could never see beyond your hatred of Harry and all things Gryffindor to notice it."

In response to this statement, Hermione, again, saw stirrings of the old Potions Master. "Parroting the textbook does not a Potioneer make, Miss Granger," he snapped in reply.

"Oh, come off it, Snape!" she retorted. "You just can't stand the fact that I-" Here she cut herself short because the smirk on Snape's face had returned and grown to an unprecedented magnitude. With a mental curse, she realized that she had not only risen to, but completely swallowed the bait.

Schooling her features into her best "I don't like you, but I'll endure your presence because I must-" expression that she used when dealing with the overly pretentious, draconian masters she often encountered as a young woman in the Potions field, she said, "You'll have to forgive me, Master Prince, but I'm afraid that I must cut our meeting short. I have a great deal to do today and must prepare my lab. If you'll allow me to escort you back to Madam Montgomery-Reed's office?"

Perhaps he recognized the fact that she was approximately two and a half seconds away from hexing him into next week, or maybe he simply tired of the game, Snape inclined his head briefly before rising from his chair.

"Don't trouble yourself, Miss Granger," he said calmly. "I'll see myself out." Then, without so much as a backwards glance, he sauntered out of Hermione's office.

For a long moment, Hermione simply gaped, bewildered, at the doorway through which he'd disappeared before she sank slowly back into her chair. Her mind whirled with unanswered questions-namely those concerning Severus Snape's miraculous return to the land of living.

She'd spoken truly when she said she had attended Snape's funeral some ten years ago. In fact, she still plainly recalled that day: Damp and chilly, it was a fitting day for a memorial service. She and Ron were together at the time, their relationship fledgling and new, and she'd clutched at him as if she feared letting him go would mean he would vanish as well. Ron himself was stony and silent, his older brother Fred having been laid to rest earlier that day. He hadn't wanted to attend Snape's service, but Hermione had insisted and, at that point, Ron had yet been willing to compromise.

Together, they'd watched the plain ebony coffin lowered into the ground as Kingsley Shacklebolt performed the burial rites as he had for all fallen members of the Order of the Phoenix. Now, of course, Ron no longer stood at her side, but, sometimes in the deep of night, Hermione imagined that she could hear the Minister's sonorous voice in her ears as he spoke about "a brave man who, in the end, surrendered everything in the battle against the Dark."

Lost in thought, she still stared blankly into space some twenty minutes later when Julia poked her head into Hermione's office and said, "Hey, Jason and I wanted to know if...whoa, you okay, Hermione?"

The sound of her friend's concerned voice snapped Hermione back to attention. "What? Yes," she replied as Jules lifted a questioning brow. "Sorry, was there something you wanted?"

Her response was a bit too swift, even to her own ears, but Jules seemed to accept it without qualm as she continued with her previous query, "Tolly and I wanted to know if you wanted to join us for lunch. We're going to hit that new Thai place down the street."

Happy for the distraction, Hermione nodded. "That sounds wonderful."

Jules grinned. "Hurry up then. I can practically hear the yellow curry chicken calling my name."

Hermione didn't need to be told twice. A quick transfiguration saw her outer robe changed into a modish, charcoal-gray trench coat, which she proceeded to don before seizing her wallet from her desk drawer. Turning to Jules, she shook off the last of her troubling thoughts and asked, "Shall we?"

Julia nodded happily while taking hold of Hermione's arm. "Let's go. I'm starving." Hermione merely laughed at her friend's enthusiasm as she allowed herself to be dragged out of her office and into a world that had suddenly flipped completely and utterly upside down.

* * *

A/N: Well, chapter two is up and running. This story is so much fun to write, even if the concept is not terribly original. It does appear as if everyone enjoyed the first chapter, and I hope that this one was up to snuff. Remember, if you catch anything (spelling/grammar issues or gaping plot holes, for example) let me know. I'll happily take any suggestions into account.

Cheers,

Wake


	3. Chapter 3

The Fine Line Between

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters, plots, or places affiliated with him. They are the sole creation of J.K. Rowling and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter Three: In Which the Past is Rehashed and Hermione Enjoys a Cup of Coffee

"I feel like I've dropped into the Twilight Zone," Hermione commented flatly as she dumped the remains of her Pad Thai lunch onto a plate and tapped it with her wand. Snagging one of the barstools at the kitchen island, she perched there moodily while the food heated and the scent of hot curry spices filled the room.

"Surely, it's not as bad as all that," was her housemate's distracted reply. Seated at the table, Jules hardly bothered to glance up from her reading as she continued, "So the guy's alive? I would've thought you'd consider that a good thing."

"It is. I do," answered Hermione, scrubbing a weary hand over her face. She felt drained; she assumed that all of the excitement from earlier that day had finally caught up with her. "It's just-I mean-I just don't see how it's possible! We saw him die, Jules!"

"So you've said before," remarked Jules wryly, though Hermione paid the observation little mind. Strangely restless all of a sudden, she sprang from her stool to pace back and forth across the kitchen as she dragged her hands through her hair.

For her part, Jules appeared calm as she slowly closed the book she'd been perusing and folded her hands over the cover before she asked evenly, "Hermione, don't you think you might be overreacting? Just a little, anyway?"

The question brought Hermione up short. Stung and not a little taken aback at Jules' nonchalant attitude, she whirled around to face her friend. "Overreacting?" she echoed. "Overreacting! Jules, a dead man walked into my office today and you want to know if I'm overreacting!"

"Well, apparently, the rumors concerning his death were greatly exaggerated," replied Jules with a smirk. Hermione simply scowled in response. "Oh, c'mon, Granger, if it bothers you so much, why don't you just talk to him?"

Snorting, Hermione crossed her arms and huffed. "Jules, if you'd ever met this man, you would realize that he's not the sort of person you can just strike up a conversation with," she explained archly. "In fact, I'm relatively sure he doesn't possess anything even remotely approaching civil social skills."

Jules chuckled. "Darlin,' I hate to inform you," the brunette began, "but you're not exactly the picture of civility at the moment." Tilting her head, she studied Hermione for a few seconds prior to pointing out, "In fact, you're actin' borderline psychotic."

When Hermione made no move to reply, Jules rose from her place at the table and made her way over to her friend, who allowed herself to be directed back to her abandoned stool. Jules took the one beside her prior to asking, "Now, why don't you tell me what's really going on?"

Propping an elbow on the countertop, Hermione rested her forehead in her hand and heaved a sigh. "He's alive, Jules," she said by way of explanation. "All this time." She glanced up then and met Jules' grey-green eyes as the other girl gazed at her. "Ten years. We all thought he'd died that night in the Shrieking Shack. That thrice-damned snake nearly tore his throat out and we just watched." Hermione shuddered and looked away as the memory resurfaced. "There was so much blood. So much..." Her voice trailed off and Jules reached over to give her hand a comforting squeeze.

"I know. You told me, but, Hermione, is it the fact that he survived that upsets you? Or that you and your friends left him there?" The question was asked in a gentle tone and, yet, Hermione felt as if she'd been slapped. The pained expression that twisted her features evidently told Jules that she'd hit the nail on the head as she said, "I thought so."

"We were so sure," murmured Hermione as she stared down at her hands, now resting in her lap. "We didn't even check for a pulse."

Through her lashes, she saw Jules quirk a brow before the other girl remarked, "So you feel guilty then."

"Yes," Hermione agreed. Honestly, "guilt" hardly began to describe how she felt now that she knew Snape survived. That he had most likely suffered greatly as Nagini's venom crept through his veins hadn't escaped her, and remorse nearly choked her when she whispered, "He was there on that dusty, rotten floor and we just left him, Julia." The more she considered the thought the closer to tears she came.

Jules must've noticed her growing disquiet because, a moment later, her thin, strong arms wrapped around Hermione's shoulders in a brief hug. "In your defense, sweetheart," began Jules pedantically as she pulled away, "you really had more pressing concerns to deal with at the time."

Hermione frowned. "I know that, Jules," she assured, "but that doesn't make it right."

"There was nothing you could've done, Hermione," said Jules softly.

"I don't believe that! I could've-I don't know!" exclaimed Hermione, vexed."I could've stayed behind, tried to stop the bleeding-something! Anything except leaving him there like I did!"

"'Like _you _did?'" repeated Jules somberly while stressing the pronoun. "Need I remind you that Hermione Jean Granger wasn't the only person in that room that night?"

"Of course not," Hermione persisted, "but I should have at least tried, Jules."

"And why would you have done that?" inquired Jules in brusque tones: It was apparent that she was swiftly becoming frustrated with Hermione's obduracy concerning the matter. "You thought he was a murderer-a Death Eater -and you only found out otherwise afterwards, right?" When Hermione gave a reluctant nod, she went on, though more gently, "You couldn't have known, Hun. He played his part well, if what you told me was true. You did the right thing."

Feeling faintly defeated, Hermione groaned and dropped her head into the nest of her arms on the counter, muttering, "I hate it when you're the voice of reason. I thought I was supposed to be the rational one."

Shrugging, Jules slipped off her barstool. "Eh, you've had a rough day. You're entitled," said the dark-haired woman as she meandered over to Hermione's long forgotten plate of noodles. "This stuff is cold again. You still want it, or do you want me to order something?"

Hermione shook her head and stood up as well. "No," she answered. "I'm not even hungry. I think I'll just go to bed." Luckily, Jules didn't press the issue and, with that last statement, Hermione turned on her heel to head upstairs to her bedroom.

At just half-past eight in the evening, it was really too early for her to retire, but Hermione, nonetheless, curled up on her bed and tugged the duvet to her chin. She hadn't felt this weary in a long time-most probably not since that year directly following the war. Those twelve long months had nearly proven the end of her as she attempted to juggle her NEWT studies, her first real boyfriend, the nagging press, and her own post-war trauma.

Said trauma had been far more severe than she or the boys had initially thought. Evidently, her Cruciatus-laden torture at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange had resulted in quite a lot of internal damage that required the expertise of a specialized Healer from St. Mungo's. The man had told her in no uncertain terms that she was "a very lucky young lady indeed" to have endured Bellatrix's madness with all her faculties intact: Even now, a decade later, she sometimes experienced phantom spasms, acute discomfort in her joints, and, in extremely rare cases, intense bouts of nausea. The aforementioned instances were infrequent these days, although, in the weeks directly after Voldemort's demise, she often spent days at a time in bed, ill.

Granted, Ron and Harry weren't much better off. Upon grasping the notion that the conflict that had defined his life for nearly seven years had finally drawn to close, Harry had suffered from a severe case of "shell-shock," whereas Ron's grief for his fallen brother had left him nearly inconsolable at times. Of course, by the end of that horrendous year hunting Horcruxes, the three of them were emotionally and physically exhausted and, not to mention, dreadfully underweight. Thus, they had spent the week immediately following the so-named "Final Battle" under the auspices of Poppy Pomfrey in the Hogwarts infirmary, which remained surprisingly intact, considering the amount of damage to the rest of the castle. For Hermione, those seven days had passed in a haze of visits by Ministry officials and nagging journalists; bouts of tears; and medicinal potions courtesy of her St. Mungo's Healer. Therefore, she only vaguely remembered them.

Thankfully, her time in hospital was relatively short: However, once released from Madam Pomfrey's care with stern orders to "take it easy," Hermione discovered that she was at something of a loose end. She'd missed her entire seventh year-her NEWT year, of all things-and she wasn't sure if she could pick up where she'd left off. After all, she and the boys had spent the last several months tracking down pieces of a semi-immortal madman's soul while dodging his minions. In comparison, school seemed positively mundane.

Naturally, Harry and Ron had dismissed the idea of returning to Hogwarts for a final year as quickly as it'd been suggested and, instead, chose to enter the Ministry's Auror-training program. Hermione herself had toyed with the same idea, but the thought of working for that particular bureaucratic machine repulsed her.

No, she'd known even then that she'd never be a Ministry flunky. Her pride, for one, wouldn't allow it. For another, she'd recognized that, even with the Dark Lord's downfall, the Wizarding World remained a somewhat insular society, especially when it came to those possessing Muggle blood. That particular insight had bothered her at first. It was difficult and disheartening to realize that, despite everything she'd done to aid in the war effort, the world in which she lived continued to regard her "kind" with suspicion, if not downright disgust.

Thus, she'd resolved to return to Hogwarts not only to finish her education, but to "buy time," as it were. At that point, she'd had no idea what she wanted to do with her life, though taking her NEWTS seemed like the first logical step. So, that summer-it was sometime in mid-July, she recalled-she'd written to newly instated Headmistress Minerva McGonagall and explained that she would like to continue her studies. McGonagall, needless to say, had been only too happy to comply and, for once, a year at Hogwarts passed in relative peace. Come June, she received seven NEWTS-six Outstandings and one Exceeds Expectations-in addition to a number of other scholastic achievement awards.

_For all the good they did me_, mused Hermione bitterly, which was true enough. Half-way through that year, she'd begun inquiring about various apprenticeships and training programs across England. Nearly all of her letters of application had been returned with an explanation of "We appreciate your interest in our program. However, we regret to inform you that there are no openings available at this time due to an influx of more qualified candidates," or some such rubbish. After twenty or so responses of a similar nature, Hermione began to look at options elsewhere because it was either that or resign herself to becoming a glorified parchment-pusher under the directive of some "more qualified" snot at the Ministry of Magic, which was not at all a tempting prospect.

Not that she had relished the idea of leaving. No, not in the least. England was her home; it was where she'd grown up, where her friends lived, and she had no desire to leave, especially in the wake of the war and the subsequent rebuilding. Her friends were none too keen on the idea, either. Unsurprisingly, Harry and Ron had protested most vehemently. In fact, it was her acceptance into the Potions program at Giles that had, at last, shattered the often volatile bond she shared with the youngest Weasley boy. Upon stating her intention to accept the offer and head to America that autumn, the pair of them had engaged in an spectacular row-in the middle of the Three Broomsticks during a Hogsmeade weekend, no less-which resulted in Ron sprouting a pair of twitching blue antennae and Hermione storming off in tears.

Nearly a month had passed before Ron's note of apology and request to talk arrived at Gryffindor Tower via Pigwidgeon. The ensuing conversation was one filled with strained silences, aborted gestures of comfort, and even a few tears, but, ultimately, she and her erstwhile beau decided that what each of them wanted from life was very different and that they were really better off as friends. Although their parting was mutual, it had hurt more than Hermione cared to remember because she couldn't recall a time in which she hadn't loved Ron Weasley. On the other hand, if she really stopped to consider it, the two of them were really quite ill-suited for one another, and the old adage proposing that "opposites attract" was complete rot, in her humble opinion.

_No, opposites fight and argue and then don't speak for weeks at a time,_ she thought mordantly as she pulled her blanket closer. _I'm probably better off without one._

Even so, she sometimes missed having someone in her life. Ron had been her first serious romantic entanglement and some part of her loved him still, though, over the years, it had softened to that distinct fondness one feels for a first love. These days they spoke only now and again-mostly on holidays or birthdays-but that was due primarily to distance and to each of them being busy with their own affairs, rather than because of any lingering bitterness. Besides, as far as she knew, he was happily involved with a French witch he'd met while on assignment in Calais.

Truthfully, the single life didn't bother her all that much; it simply meant that she had more time to focus for her work.

_And that kind of thinking is exactly why you're single, Granger_, she laughed to herself and then rolled over onto her side.

She wasn't sure when she fell asleep, only that it was well after midnight and that morning came entirely too early. When she woke at the sound of the alarm clock blaring from her nightstand, she slapped at it impatiently. The Muggle gadget hit the carpet with a muffled thud as she sighed tiredly and rubbed her eyes before crawling out of bed to prepare for work.

As she finished twisting her unruly tresses into a chignon and secured it with her favorite pair of hair sticks (the ebony ones inlaid with mother-of-pearl that the Potters had sent her for Christmas two years past) she gazed into the bathroom mirror and ruminated on the day ahead. She didn't know what would come of it and, quite frankly, she dreaded it. The prospect of working with Snape made her uneasy. He had never been the pleasant sort and yesterday's encounter had merely reinforced the general consensus that he was a snarky bastard. Nevertheless, she'd never been one to shirk her duty and, so, at ten minutes till nine, she entered her office with a determined stride.

In truth, as she'd walked down the hall, she'd half-expected him to appear out of nowhere to scare the living daylights out of her: Goodness knew he'd done so often enough during her time at Hogwarts. However, the newest addition to the Hollinworth's Potions department was nowhere to be seen, which was just as well, considering that she didn't feel even remotely human without caffeine in her system and the idea of facing him while still half-asleep wasn't appealing in the least. For that reason, a trip to the staff lounge was definitely the first thing on the agenda.

The room was empty when she entered, yet the scent of coffee was heavy in the air. A quick glance around revealed a fresh carafe full sitting on the counter, a fact for which Hermione was exceedingly thankful, seeing as Jules had taken off for an early morning meeting without making any and Hermione had been in too much of a rush to do so herself. Taking a mug from the cabinet above the kitchenette sink, she poured herself some of the beverage and took a fortifying sip.

With delight, Hermione realized that it wasn't the typical blend that the Hollinworth provided; it was a much darker roast with rich, earthy, almost herbal undertones. Sumatran, maybe? Or Guatemalan? Regardless of its origins, it was a lovely brew and she closed her eyes in bliss.

"I do hope you're enjoying the coffee, Miss Granger."

"Holy-!" she very nearly swore as she jumped in fright: The startled motion caused hot coffee to slosh over the edge of her cup and onto the countertop. Her mad scramble to contain the ensuing mess and salvage the notes she'd been reviewing had Snape chuckling as he watched her efforts.

After applying a siphoning charm to remove the excess liquid and then spelling her papers dry, she whipped around to glower at the man who leaned indolently against the opposite counter and then asked crossly, "Do you mind?"

"Not particularly," he answered, pushing away from the counter. He held his own cup of coffee in one long-fingered hand and he lifted it to smirking lips as Hermione rolled her eyes and huffed.

"I gathered as much," she grumbled before sitting down her mug. Reaching out and lifting the carafe, she poured herself a refill as she continued, "You always did enjoy scaring the ever-loving hell out of people. It stands to reason the trend would continue."

"Well, now, that was uncharitable," he pointed out sardonically. His smirk never faded as he placed his cup on the counter beside hers and crossed his arms. "I did ask you a question, Miss Granger." When she blinked at him, confused, he sighed under his breath and repeated, "The coffee, Granger, did you enjoy it?"

"Why do you care?" She was well aware that she sounded rather wary and not a little sulky, but Snape's sudden appearance had set her on edge. The fact that he seemed to want to engage in idle chatter didn't help matters: The former Potions professor didn't do small-talk.

"It's a simple inquiry, girl," he said, exasperated when she merely stared at him suspiciously. "I don't require three feet of parchment with references. A simple 'yes' will suffice."

Her stare swiftly shifted into a glare. "It's too bitter," she declared, though the description couldn't have been farther from the truth. Snape knew it, too, much to her consternation. He simply raised an eyebrow and Hermione found herself relenting with a flush. "Oh, fine. It's very nice. Now, what do you want, Snape? I have a lot of work to do."

"Indeed?" he queried. "And what is so pressing that you cannot stay and chat for a moment?"

"Since when do you 'chat,' Snape?" she asked churlishly.

"Why do you insist upon addressing me in that manner?" he responded, annoyance finally creeping into his voice. "Surely you haven't forgotten yesterday's conversation, Miss Granger."

"Oh, indeed, I haven't, _Sullivan_," assured Hermione, placing mocking emphasis on the name. When a scowl began to twist his lips, she almost smiled; _that_ was an expression with which she was familiar, one she associated with him far more than the amused smirk he'd worn for the majority of their exchange. "Granted, I don't see what difference it makes. No one here knows the name 'Snape,' let alone anything associated with it."

"You might be surprised," he remarked.

Hermione fixed him with an irritable look and placed her hands on her hips. "And what is that supposed to mean?" she asked.

"Although it is true that the war never reached the Americas, I can assure you that the Dark Lord's influence spread well beyond Europe," he explained as though she were a particularly dim First-year Potions student. Hermione immediately decided that she didn't care for the tone.

Snape didn't seem to notice the growing expression of indignation on her face as he went on, "Like calls to like, Miss Granger, and dark to dark. A man such as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will always find support, no matter the distance."

At these words, her anger suddenly evaporated and, for a moment, Hermione thought she might be sick. "You mean they're here?" She hated how apprehensive she sounded. "There are Death Eaters here in the States?"

"No," he answered with a jerk of his head and, for the first time, Hermione noticed that his long hair had been drawn back into a low queue. She didn't dwell on the observation for more than a second, though, as he continued, "Not Death Eaters per say: That title was reserved only for those who received the mark and them the Dark Lord kept close. They were the individuals he thought would prove most useful." Watching him now, Hermione noted the depreciating look that stole across his face as he spoke. Yes, he'd been most useful to Voldemort-so much so, in fact, that the evil wizard had unleashed a giant, Horcrux-riddled snake upon him when he'd outlived said usefulness.

Something of her current thoughts must have shown on her features for Snape turned away abruptly, his hand straying to his left forearm. Hermione imagined that the action was involuntary: He probably didn't even realize where his right hand now hovered and she endeavored to keep her eyes away from the spot where she knew the accursed mark lay. Instead, she forced her attention back to his face while Snape carried on, "No, there are no Death Eaters here, Miss Granger. There are, however, many among the old established families of this country who certainly sympathized with their ideals."

Befuddled by this news, Hermione bit her lip thoughtfully. "But Jules once told me that there aren't any purebloods in America."

"Come now, Miss Granger," he began patronizingly. "Use that much extolled intellect you supposedly possess." When she scowled at him and didn't comment, he continued, "'Pureblood' is a misnomer when it comes directly down to it. There isn't a witch or wizard alive today who can truly claim to be 'pure' of blood."

Hermione raised both eyebrows in disbelief, saying, "Sorry, but I think You-Know-Who must have missed that particular memo."

"Ah, but Miss Granger, the Dark Lord himself was a half-blood," replied Snape. "In the end, the Dark Lord cared little about blood purity: He merely used pureblood supremacy ideology to further his own ends."

Hermione snorted. "So you're telling me he didn't want to stamp Muggles out of existence?"

"No, Granger," denied the dark-haired wizard. "He most certainly did, but that was mostly due to the fact that he was a complete and utter psychopath." The stare Hermione proceeded to cast in his direction implied that she thought that Snape himself had a few screws loose. Upon spotting the expression, he released a short bark of laughter. "The man might have had delusions of grandeur, girl, but he wasn't stupid. He wanted to rule the Wizarding World, yes, but he was well aware that he could not overtake it alone. He needed followers and what better way to bring them to his side than to prey on their fear of non-Magic folk."

Hermione said nothing; she had never really considered the motivation behind the pureblood faction's desire to eradicate Muggles. Mostly, she had chalked it all up to superiority issues, to believing Muggles beneath Wizards because of their lack of magic. Never had she considered "fear" to be a contributing factor: After all, Draco Malfoy had never seemed to be afraid of her, not even after she'd decked him when she was thirteen.

"Forgive me if I don't take you at your word, Snape," she said at last. "But I'm afraid that I find your theory hard to believe. Why would they have anything to fear from Muggles?"

"Bloody hell, Granger!" he exclaimed. "You were never this dense in your school days." At this remark, she very nearly drew her wand on him, but he didn't appear to be aware of just how short her fuse had grown as he said, "Think about it, girl. Think about what you know of the history of this country."

Her temper still simmered dangerously close to the surface, yet Hermione managed to keep a handle on it long enough to consider what he implied. When she realized the reference a few moments later, she had to admit that she felt somewhat foolish. "The Trials," she said matter-of-factly and Snape nodded.

"Brava, Granger," he replied as if the answer should have been obvious and Hermione's jaw began to ache from clenching her teeth in annoyance. "Yes, the so-called Witch Trials of Salem. Granted, that occasion was only one of many similar instances throughout history. I suppose you're familiar with the story of Wendelin the Weird?"

"Yes," answered Hermione, raising a brow. "She allowed herself to be caught and burned at the stake no less than forty-seven times because she enjoyed the tickling sensation resulting from her Flame-Freezing Charms."

"Ever the know-it-all," confirmed Snape ironically and Hermione's scowl returned in full-force. Snape ignored it, continuing, "What the history books don't tell us is that the Muggles eventually wised up and, when Wendelin was caught for the forty-eighth time, they stoned her to death-along with three others."

Taken aback by this hitherto unknown detail of Wizarding history, Hermione swallowed roughly. Silence fell as she attempted to process the gruesome information and its blunt delivery while Snape waited for her to connect the dots. Several moments slipped away before she murmured as it occurred to her, "Men fear what they don't understand." Meeting Snape's dark gaze, she said a bit louder, "Muggles persecuted Magic-users because they were afraid of them-were afraid of a power they themselves didn't possess and, thus, couldn't comprehend. And Wizards feared Muggles because Muggles hunted them."

"In short," he concluded, shrugging. "Fear breeds fear, Miss Granger. On behalf of both Magic and non-Magic folk." That said, he turned back to the counter and poured himself a second cupful of coffee. "As for this country, many of the old families have not forgotten what happened during the witch hunts. Their ancestors were driven into hiding by the Muggles who pursued them and were forced to forgo using magic in order to survive and 'blend.' They resent that even now and, had he been given the opportunity, the Dark Lord would have gladly used their resentment to his advantage. We were simply fortunate that Potter killed him before he managed to gain a firm foothold here in America."

"Perhaps so, but that still doesn't explain your alias," Hermione pointed out dryly. "Did your reputation precede you, or are you just that paranoid?" At the mention of his "reputation," something in Snape's gaze shifted and Hermione instantly recognized that she'd made a mistake.

"One can never be too careful, Miss Granger," he answered, eyes suddenly shuttered. A new note in his voice told her that she now tread on thin ice, even if she had no idea why. Something she'd said, perhaps? Really, she mused to herself, she should have known his good humor-well, good for Snape, anyway-wouldn't last. His temper was mercurial at best and lethal at worst, so she supposed that she'd lucked out as far as their conversation was concerned. In fact, she could hardly believe that he'd spoken to her at all, let alone for any great length of time and, not to mention, amicably.

"Now, if you're quite finished indulging your curiosity," he growled, sounding far too much like the Potions master of old for Hermione's comfort, "I have a meeting with Madam Montgomery-Reed." With that, he spun on his heel and stormed from the room.

Shocked by his abrupt change in demeanor, Hermione watched him go before asking the room at large, "What the hell just happened?" Then, as it occurred to her that his reaction was classic Snape, she burst into laughter and she was still laughing when she gathered her notes, picked up her cup of coffee, and headed to the lab for the day.

* * *

A/N: Umm...yeah, okay, so this chapter is really late. I was trying to adhere to a schedule of posting at least once a week, but I've been busy lately, so I couldn't get this one up. The chapter itself has actually been finished for almost two weeks; I just needed to edit it and I couldn't find the time. On another note, I realize that my version of Snape is far mellower than he really has any right to be, and I know that someone will comment on it. Let's just pretend that ten years of peace have softened him a bit. Also, I'm aware that there is a lot of information in this chapter and I hope that it wasn't too overwhelming. I had actually planned to split it into two separate chapters, but I couldn't find a good stopping point. As far as the historical information is concerned, I sort of twisted what I know of the Salem witch trials to fit my own nefarious purposes; don't take it to heart because it's not accurate. Regardless, I do hope that you enjoyed the chapter. I may do some more editing later on, so something might change. As always, if you catch anything I missed, just let me know and I'll fix it.

Cheers,

Wake


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